


Fight Them Soft

by frombluetored



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, THIS IS NOT A SNAPE/GINNY SHIP FIC, basically things are dark but they end up SUPER HAPPY, brief depictions of torture but nothing too graphic, but still highkey being an asshole, first part is Snape's POV, harry and ginny on the same page eternally, hermione and ginny pregnant together, ron and hermione bickering about names, second is Ginny's, snape lowkey helping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:46:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7710346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frombluetored/pseuds/frombluetored
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light and the dark and the mingling of both: “What do you think of the name Severus?” [There was more to Ginny’s sixth year at Hogwarts than anybody knew. A blood traitor witch of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, suspected love of Harry Potter; the Carrow siblings, hell bent on punishment and the Dark Lord’s approval; and a begrudging headmaster, who lives in the tangled limbo between light and dark—but finds a rare flash of clarity hidden within a familiar sight.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Them Soft

**Author's Note:**

> Two things: First, I am not Snape's biggest fan; there is no excuse for the way he bullied his students, and despite the efforts he made for Dumbledore's cause, he still caused irrefutable damage in the lives of many students. However, I was interested in the idea that Ginny had her own reasons for naming Albus after Snape, and I always felt that he probably tried to help out more during his brief time as headmaster than anybody noticed (mostly because he was a master of doing good deeds unnoticed). Secondly, I usually hate when Ginny is compared to Lily Evans heavily within a narrative because they've really only got three things in common: red hair, Gryffindor, married a Potter. However, considering how Snape is so detail-oriented when it comes to Lily Evans (Harry's eyes, for example, are extremely powerful to him), I found it likely that he at least would see similarities between the two. BASICALLY this fic is the last thing I ever thought I'd write, and it has been an interesting experience.
> 
> EDIT: Thanks to fat_joey who reminded me that Snape has a dislike for the word 'mudblood'!

“We’ve got another one, Severus.”

Severus Snape—hunched over his desk so far that the tip of his nose was nearly touching the pages of his book—straightened. He scanned his eyes over Amycus Carrow, who once again looked haggard and disheveled (no doubt the handiwork of Hogwarts’ most recent re-infestation, Dumbledore’s Army).

“And you found it pertinent to walk all the way here to inform me of this?” Snape bit. “I believe that I put you and your dear sister in charge of punishments simply to save myself from your tiresome visits every half-hour. Why are you here?” 

Amycus hesitated. “Yes, well. We’ve hit…a block.”

Severus arched an eyebrow.

“A block.” He repeated flatly.

Amycus carefully averted his eyes, as if he’d known Severus was planning on glancing into his mind.

“Yes. Our detainee…” he trailed off.

“Ah.” Snape tapped the arm of the chair for a few long moments. “What seems to be the issue with your… _detainee_?”

His lip curled upwards on the last word, though Amycus hardly noticed.

“It’s the Weasley girl again. She was caught last night with the Longbottom scum—writing that filth on the walls.”

Snape’s mind flew to the graffiti the castle had woken to that morning—a large banner bearing the words: _Potter is fighting—and so are we. Dumbledore’s Army – Still Recruiting!_ The youngest Weasley and Mr Longbottom were incorrigible. Severus had attempted to… _encourage_ them to stop through his own methods (taking away Hogsmeade visits, barring them from mailing letters, restricting them to the common room at all spare hours, and then there was the incident with the Sword which had earned them detention in the Forest with Hagrid), but it had only served to incite them further. And when Luna Lovegood had been taken over Christmas break, the two remaining leaders had redoubled their efforts. He’d been forced to allow the Carrows to take over after that point, knowing it would begin to look highly suspicious to put up with their escalating, rebellious behavior for any longer.

“And?” Severus snapped.

“And I’ve come for permission to do more. I know we aren’t meant to spill the blood of any children within the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but the Weasleys hardly deserve that status.”

“And yet—their blood remains pure, Amycus.” Snape kept his dark eyes locked on Amycus’ face for a beat longer, calculating. The Carrows were hotheaded and reckless – enough so that Severus privately thought they’d make brilliant Gryffindors—but they were still incredibly thirsty for the Dark Lord’s favor. “The Dark Lord wouldn’t like us spilling the valuable blood of a pureblood witch. Surely you wouldn’t recklessly risk his…disappointment.”

Amycus flushed. His next words spilled from him in an excited, furious rush. “Severus, I’ve heard interesting things from many reputable students, as well as a few coerced things from students in detention. Things that should be pressed, things the Dark Lord should know about. About Weasley.”

Severus saw a quick flash of memories within his own mind: _Ginny Weasley, walking hand-in-hand with Potter through the halls; Ginny Weasley, late to his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, her cheeks flushed and mind floating elsewhere; Ginny Weasley, melded against Potter’s side at breakfast, her food untouched._ Memories he had failed to share with the Dark Lord. Memories some part of him had found appropriate to avoid when in the Dark Lord’s presence.

“Yes, I’m sure you have,” Severus finally said dryly. “The Weasleys have always gotten themselves involved in muck. It is not news to anybody that the Weasleys were friendly with Potter.”

“I’ve heard,” Amycus continued, his eyes shining. He hardly seemed to hear a word Severus said. “That Weasley was _involved_ with Harry Potter.”

He was practically trembling with discovery. Severus kept his face impassive.

“Involved.”

“Romantically, Severus. She was his girlfriend. The Zabini boy says they were kissing all over the grounds last year, that she was the one with him after Dumbledore died, that she’s his closest confidante.”

“Nonsense. If that were true, Amycus, she’d be with him right now.”

He persisted. “If you’d let me punish her with more than the Cruciatus, I know I could get information from her, information that would be beneficial to the Dark Lord, information we could get about Harry Potter, we could go through her to get to him—”

A confusing jumble of memories and thoughts all his own. _A string of harsh, hypnotic words uttered in Hog’s Head; the sickening pounding of Severus’ heart within his own chest, the sting of the cold air on his cheeks; the softness of grass beneath his palms and the sweetness of a girl beside him; a cry, a flash of red—_

“You idiot, that silly little girl doesn’t know anything about Potter’s plans,” Severus snarled, his words sharp and quick as a slice. Amycus arched an eyebrow. “You’d only be wasting your time and pure blood. Any information the Cruciatus hasn’t pulled from her doesn’t exist. Potter is every bit his father—arrogant, selfish, a curse on all those around him. You think he would entrust Weasley with any information? Even if they were involved— _especially_ if they were involved? Like his father, leading those around him to ruin…if he loved her, Amycus, if she knew anything, if she was his weak link, would he have left her here at our mercy? I ask of you, I _beg of you_ , to at least feign the appearance of intelligence while speaking with me; it’s dreadfully tiring to be faced with your idiocy.” Amycus had begun to glower dangerously, and when Severus locked eyes with him, he was granted access to a series of Amycus’s fleeting thoughts: _…very reluctant to harm her...very reluctant to harm anybody in Dumbledore’s Army…he was here, in this very office, with Dumbledore innumerable times…I have suggested to Bellatrix that he is too soft, too sympathetic to the blood traitors and mudbloods…_

Severus dropped his eyes to his desk. He knew what he had to do now, and he felt a surge of sickening, foolish familiarity, like he’d lived this before, like he was repeating history. Like opening the door to this young girl’s pain was somehow tied to another’s. He did not have the time nor the present luxury of introspection to explain it to himself.

“Do what you must. Appease your curiosity. But you will learn nothing, and there will be no deaths.” He ordered. He heard the coldness in his own voice, and he drew strength from it. He told himself that coldness reflected what he really felt. There were no ghosts of the things he’d lost. The sickness in his gut was a figment. “There are so few pureblood witches left. The Dark Lord would be enraged. Do not forget that.”

Amycus was quiet for a beat too long. Severus looked up, locked eyes with him again, and was suddenly accosted by a vivid stream of horrible scenes, scenes Amycus had clearly been planning for weeks, each fueled by a perverse hatred and rage that had little to do with Potter…

Amycus turned, breaking Snape’s glimpse into his mind, and made for the door.

“Amycus?”

Amycus turned.

“Blood traitor though she may be…I expect you to remain faithful to the Dark Lord’s wishes. It won’t do to get enraged and sloppy.”

* * *

 

Within his desk, hidden within the pages of an enchanted book that only opened to his touch, he kept a token of the person he might’ve still had, if he had once contained the strength to be _lesser_. Less brutish, less conceited, less defensive, less _frightened_.

He watched her sometimes: her face bright with laughter, her hair tousled gently by the breeze. He tried to ignore the jagged edges from which her family had been ripped away, but like any gruesome mark, his eyes were drawn to it every time.

And sometimes—sometimes: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She would laugh. Her hair would blow around her.

“Was it enough?” Sometimes he would ask. “Has my repentance been enough?”

And sometimes, he took her laughter as an affirmative, while other times she merely cackled coldly, her green eyes bulging with accusations that were everything but unfounded.

* * *

 

Michael Corner’s screams reverberated throughout the dungeons. The sound had become nearly as familiar to the surroundings as the sound of bubbling cauldrons had once been. He had grown desensitized to it nearly entirely; now, as he walked, he cast a silencing charm with the slightest flicker of annoyance.

He didn’t visit the dungeons often. There was little he could do for those being tortured without making his fellow Death Eaters suspicious, and he had come too far now to ruin it. _The Greater Good_. He had once thought it stupid. But now, faced with a lifetime’s worth of sins camping along his spine, it was comforting to think that way. Comforting to tell himself that every bad deed he’d ever done was excusable for the sake of one large good deed. He thought it was probably the weakest men who deluded themselves in this way.

Still—he checked in every few days, when what was left of his conscience began gnawing so viciously at his gut that eating became a chore. A day didn’t pass that Dumbledore’s portrait didn’t pester him on the matter (a largely hypocritical thing, in Severus’s opinion, from the man who had raised a boy for slaughter), and he was eager to shut the painting up for even a day or so.

He waved his wand and stepped into the dungeon holding those in _detention_. Michael Corner was mid-Cruciatus, his body contorting wildly, blood caked around his mouth thanks to his bitten tongue. Snape stared down at his writhing figure. A sixth-year Slytherin was seated in a chair near him, casting the curse absentmindedly like clockwork, a book opened in his lap.

“Enough.” Snape drawled. The boy looked up. From his feet, Corner went limp, quivering and sweat-soaked. He gave a whimper, and in a cracked, hardly legible voice, Snape thought he heard Corner ask for his mother. “That will do. Escort Corner back to Ravenclaw Tower.”

“But, Headmaster, he’s only been here for six hours—”

“That will _do_. I do not talk for the luxury of hearing myself speak. I’m well aware of the progression of time. Do it—now.”

With a heavily insulted expression, the boy slammed his book shut, hoisted Corner up, and began dragging his shivering body towards the doorway. Snape turned his attention on the three others in the dungeon, sending each off to their respective dormitories. The dungeon stank of piss; he left the remaining torturers with the job of cleaning it up, a small pleasure in an otherwise dark situation.

He had nearly forgotten Amycus, had forgotten the conversation they’d had the day prior. The silence in the dungeons equated to emptiness, or so he thought. He paused outside of the second room on his way back up, drawn to a stop by the sound of Alecto’s raucous laughter. He waved his wand, entered, and froze. It was a mistake.

“Severus? Do you need something?” Alecto questioned.

The room was gray, dark, damp. But there was red there, fanned out against the wall, slipping wildly over a torn shoulder in dirty ropes of brightness. His mind burst open, like somebody had forced their way in, and in an all-consuming sweep of pain, he left the dungeon. He was in Godric’s Hollow, in a blown-apart room, and he was kneeling on the floor, and _she_ was in his arms, and there were ropes of brightness spilling over his arms, soft and warm…his friend, the only true one he’d ever had.

It was frigid when he returned fully to the dungeon. He found it difficult to look at the Weasley girl, and at first, he felt it was only because of her red hair and the memories it triggered. But when his eyes locked with hers, he realized it was her blazing expression that was painful. It seared into him with a hatred so volatile that the thought _if looks could kill_ circled Severus’s mind. He instinctively threw up his mental defenses, forgetting for a moment that this was a sixteen year old girl, hardly capable of diving into his mind. Something in her defeated appearance made her seem more dangerous than he logically knew she was.

“We’ve trained her well,” Alecto laughed, pushing past Severus’ stunned silence. With a somewhat lazy flick of her wand, Alecto cried _Crucio!_. Severus closed his eyes and looked to the side as the girl curled in on herself, waiting to hear a cry, waiting for the screams that would come…only to be met with stony silence.

It was not strength that fueled that little girl. Severus looked at her despite his better judgement, and he knew she was suffering beyond anything she’d imagined or anticipated, but still her lips remained clamped, still her eyes remained opened and accusing. No, it wasn’t strength. Her knees were mangled and bloody, the flesh shredded and ripped, most likely from falling repeatedly to the dungeon floors. Her thin wrists were so purpled they looked black, with pools of red from burst blood vessels, and bleeding lines of prose were cut into her inner forearms, indistinguishable now in the dim lighting, but surely the result of many nights with recently-improved Black Quills. Her bottom lip was bitten open, caked with dried blood, her hair soaked in sweat. She looked liable to burst into tears at any moment, and yet she didn’t. And it was from nothing beyond pure, unabridged rage and spite.

“Doesn’t seem to bother her anymore, but no matter; we got a rise from her with the Black Quills. It was Crabbe’s boy who thought of it—brilliant, I gave him 50 points. The lines were so long it used her arm instead of her hand. You should’ve seen the foolish fit she threw after we made her write _‘I must not—‘”_

“And,” Severus interrupted, already spotting a few of the crude words cut into Ms Weasley’s skin, and somehow not wishing to hear them uttered aloud, “did you find out anything of use?”

Predictably, Alecto’s face fell.

“No, but I’m sure that—”

“I’m sure you’re an imbecile, not unlike your brother.”

Alecto hissed, her eyes flashing.

“Just because she hasn’t succumbed doesn’t mean she won’t once I call the Dark Lord—”

Severus continued as if she hadn’t spoken, though a chill had settled over his heart. He instinctively flexed his left forearm, as if to make sure the Mark wasn’t burning. To make sure she hadn’t truly called the Dark Lord here, to extinguish yet another young woman’s life in the name of eradicating Harry Potter.

“You’ve wasted your time—which is really the Dark Lord’s time—on a girl who has never even shared more than a passing conversation with Harry Potter.”

“That is not true!” Alecto was furious. “I have had dozens of students tell me that they were strolling around together, lovesick, for months!”

“And _yet_ , as I told your brother, he’s left her here in your hands. Does that sound like something somebody would do to one they loved?”

It was brief, but Severus saw the girl’s eyes dart to his. He met her eyes for a brief second, long enough to feel a wave of pain and fury that was coming straight from the girl herself, but then she dropped her eyes back down, and it vanished.

“ _Clearly_ ,” Alecto began, through clenched teeth. “He couldn’t take an underage witch alongside him—”

“You’ve had her down here for—what? Hours? Days? If she hasn’t told you anything new—there’s nothing for her to tell.”

Alecto was quicker than Severus had anticipated. With an oddly animalistic lunge forward, and a strangled cry of rage, she’d shot a curse at Ginny Weasley. Blood immediately began to pour from the girl’s nose, eyes, and ears, in thick, pulsating rivulets.

“Tell me what he’s doing. _You tell me_ what he needed that sword for right now, or I will let you bleed to death!”

Severus forced himself to appear calm, but internally, he was wound tight. He watched the girl cough up mouthful after mouthful of blood. She was nearly choking, but in a fit of self-preservation, she managed to spit out a sentence—

“Okay,” she coughed. She sputtered a moment later, expelling another mouthful of blood, but managed to continue. With a trembling hand, she wiped her bloody lips before continuing. “I’d forgotten to get him a birthday gift, you see, and—”

With another shriek of pure rage, Alecto hurdled herself towards the girl. She was, at this point, too weak with blood loss to do much of anything as Alecto began slamming her fists into her, utterly deranged. Severus ambled over lazily, reached down, and hoisted Alecto up and off the blood-soaked girl. He threw her backwards, so she landed hard on the stone floor, gasping and snarling in rage. He wordlessly threw up a shield charm, keeping Alecto from lunging back towards the girl, and then shot a silent counter-curse Weasley’s way to stop the hemorrhaging. She collapsed entirely for the first time since he entered, trembling and white-faced. She would need to take a blood-replenishing potion quickly.

“ _Enough_!” He bellowed. His voice echoed throughout the dungeon. Alecto was climbing crossly to her feet. “I believe I instructed _no deaths!_ No fruitless spilling of magical blood! This has been a fool’s errand, fueled by your immature inability to compartmentalize your own dislike! And if you’ve deluded yourself to believe this is what the Dark Lord would _want_ —”

“Filthy blood traitors! Sick little girl, letting the Potter boy touch her—she’s no pureblood in my book!”

“Thankfully, your book isn’t the one that counts!” For a moment, he resented the Weasley girl beyond anyone else. For making herself so difficult to protect, to defend. He only had one card to play with, and it was rapidly losing all value. “What do you think will happen to our community after the Dark Lord triumphs without pureblood witches? How are we meant to continue on? Shall all the pureblood males have children with _muggleborns_?!”

Ms Weasley was a remarkable match for Potter, because just like him, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut or resist the urge to make a bold, idiotic comment. He should’ve known.

“I’d rather _die_ than have children with one of _your_ lot,” she bit. It didn’t quite have the fierceness she’d obviously intended for, thanks to her weakness. She seemed to be hardly conscious. Severus glared coldly at her.

“Shut your mouth, idiot girl. Save your energy.” _Gryffindors._ He turned his back on her, narrowed his mind in on a memory of him and Lily by the lake in their second year, and then cast his Patronus. The doe stared at him quietly, sadly. “Tell Madame Pomfrey to send down a blood-replenishing potion immediately.”

In a streak of silver, the doe leapt from the dungeons.

“Out. Get out.” He told Alecto.

She glared and made no move to leave. Without thinking it through, without considering that he may have read Alecto incorrectly, that it might not work on her—he yanked up the sleeve of his robe, broadcasting his Dark Mark. “Shall I summon him here? Shall I show him what you’ve done to a perfectly valuable pureblood?”

“ _She was involved with—_!”

“You have no idea who she was involved with! You weren’t here! You—”

“Amycus was dueling with this one last year, after Dumbledore died! After _you_ fled like a coward! And Potter jumped in to save her, Amycus saw it—”

“Potter jumps in to save everybody! He’s an arrogant fool! _I_ was here last year and yet neither of you thought to consult with me—”

“And you swear they weren’t involved?!”

“I swear it!” He bellowed. He was letting his temper get the best of him, and he wasn’t even sure precisely why. He kept seeing the doleful eyes of his Patronus. “I swear on my life, those two were _never_ involved! Potter had detention with me all last year, I would’ve known, I was watching him as I’ve done for his entire school career! You’ve let students make a fool of you. You’ve let those with a vendetta against the Weasleys convince you that this girl has information that she doesn’t. Rest assured that I’ll be speaking with the Dark Lord about your hotheadedness.”

“Severus…”

“Out. _Out_! _I_ am the one in charge of this school; I was the one the Dark Lord entrusted! And you _will obey me_!”

His own head echoed from the volume of his words. At that moment, Poppy Pomfrey burst in, out of breath and frightened. She looked between Severus and Alecto, and then spotted Ginny Weasley’s motionless form.

“Oh my—” she stopped, speechless. Before she dropped down to the girl’s side, she shot a look of pure hatred towards Severus.

He turned back to Alecto. “Well?”

With one more vexed look, Alecto left the dungeon. Severus paced around, casting cleaning spells over the blood-caked stones, while Pomfrey talked quietly and gently to Weasley. She coaxed two cups of potion into her, and once she was fully conscious, she began to help her up.

“Leave her,” Severus said, without looking at them.

He could feel Pomfrey’s stare. When he turned back and met her eyes, he could feel her hatred and her fear. In her mind, he watched a scattered film of images: _eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley, shaking and sobbing atop a hospital bed, weeping:_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry _in her sleep; Ginny Weasley, not much younger than she was now, sitting propped up in bed, surrounded by the other children who’d broken into the Department of Mysteries alongside her, her concerned eyes on her brother; Ginny Weasley, sitting vigil beside Potter’s bed, after the boy had taken a bludger to the head; Ginny Weasley, gripping the eldest Weasley son’s hand, his face mangled beyond recognition—_ I won’t let you _._ Pomfrey was staring at him, speaking _to him_.

“I won’t.” She voiced needlessly.

“Thankfully, all decisions within this school are not up to Poppy Pomfrey,” he scowled.

“Issues regarding the students’ health _are_ , however, and Ms Weasley needs to be in the hospital wing immediately. She _needs_ to go to St. Mungo’s, but I doubt that will be permitted, nor am I delusional enough to believe she’d be any safer there.” He watched her straighten, her self-righteous anger making her braver. “Shame on you. _Shame on you!_ A sixteen year old girl. A child!”

“Poppy,” he began. “Do not force me to make things any worse here. Do as I ask. Go tend to the other students in the wing. I will bring Ms Weasley to you. Don’t force me to dismiss you. What would Hogwarts do without you?”

Trembling fear. He read it clearly in her eyes, on the lines of her body.

“One day, Severus,” she began, hardly managing to choke back tears. “You will regret every moment of this, every moment of your pathetic life. Someday, you will be injured, and nobody will be there to help. I hope I’m there to see it.”

She helped Weasley over to a chair, turned, and left in a mess of tears.

* * *

 

You would’ve thought she’d been possessed.

Severus quietly sat across from her, attempting to catch her eye, but she stared listlessly at her knees. If she was frightened, it didn’t show. If she was feeling much of anything, he’d never know. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing anymore.

“You lied.” She said.

Careful. He had to be very careful now.

“And what exactly do you accuse me of lying about?”

Finally, she looked up and met his eyes. He dove in with a bit _too_ much ease; no doubt Potter had told her all about his abilities as a Legilimens. She was either as rubbish at defending her mind as Potter was, and had accepted that, or she was using her knowledge to her benefit to communicate with him. He realized which it was rather quickly.

He watched her own memory of one of his DADA classes at the end of last school year. He watched his own sneer, heard his own voice as he said: “ _Perhaps if Ms Weasley spent less time…_ mingling _with Mr Potter and more time on her studies, she would have done the required reading, and would not have cost Gryffindor ten points.”_ It switched—he caught a glimpse of a few other memories, flashing by too quickly for him to gather much from them—and then found himself staring at his own face again. _“You’re dismissed. And, Weasley—I’ll see you in detention this weekend. Next time you consider chatting with Ms Lovegood for an entire lesson…reconsider.” Her voice now, hopefully: “On Saturday night, Professor?” He watched himself laugh coldly. “Oh, I think not. You can have detention tonight and Potter will continue to have them on Saturdays. Perhaps, if I keep both you and your boyfriend apart every weekend, you’ll both be motivated to think before you act.”_

He was vaguely impressed as he pulled from her mind. It wasn’t often that wizards or witches could manipulate what memories they wanted to show, but she’d done just that, managing to quickly bypass the other memories he’d attempted to probe.

“You knew. I know you did. But you lied.”

He was quiet, unsure what to say. He should’ve sent her on to the hospital wing. No—he should’ve stayed out of it. What did it matter to him if Potter lost this girl? It would serve him right. Let him know how it feels. Let him get an idea of how _Severus_ had felt when _James Potter_ had taken Lily. Let him feel that pain—the pain that he himself had felt when Lily died, had been taken from him in the most horrid, permanent of ways—

“You were protecting me.”

For a moment, she was strikingly like Lily Evans: chin held high, gaze sharp, resolve steady.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He said.

“You could have had me killed. For trying to take the sword. Instead, you sent us off to have a laugh with Hagrid.”

“The Dark Lord doesn’t want—”

“You-Know-Who doesn’t care anything about the Weasleys. He doesn’t value our blood. In fact, he’s made it pretty clear that he wants as many of us dead as possible. But you already knew that.”

There were things flowing between them, vague understandings that, later, Severus would tell himself he imagined. He could not tell her anything. The risks were too high. He would already be in grave danger if the Dark Lord ever came across her, ever thought to search her mind, ever found the memory of this encounter. And somehow, she seemed to know that.

“Go. Go to the hospital wing. You’ll need more potion soon.” He waved his wand, silently wiping the blood from her skin, then aiming at her mangled knees. He watched the skin slowly heal over as he murmured incantations, and once she was healed—albeit shaken—he stood. “Show Madame Pomfrey your arm. It looks broken.”

Ms Weasley nodded once and rose slowly. She met his eyes again, and he heard it clearly: _I don’t understand_. He saw Dumbledore’s lifeless form, he saw Potter weeping. He had a foolish moment. A moment in which he nearly admitted everything. The desperation for somebody to understand was suffocating. He had lost his only confidante, the only person who knew what he was fighting for ( _who_ he was fighting for). Sitting there, looking at that fierce, clever girl, he wanted to tell her. But it would’ve been selfish and reckless, and he’d done enough selfish and reckless things in his lifetime.

“We are only as safe as those we surround ourselves with are.” He began. “You surround yourself with muggleborns and Potter, and you’ll be punished like muggleborns and Potter. As long as you can be found, you can be blamed. Remember that.”

He had hoped it would be vaguely threatening enough to keep him protected, in the off chance that the Dark Lord ever used Legilimency on the girl. But she didn’t look frightened at all; rather, she looked like she understood more than he would’ve liked. It was imperative that she got herself hidden, for more than just her sake, but he could not offer any more advice.

“We will continue your punishments after the Easter holidays.” _Don’t return, don’t remain._

“Okay.” It was loaded. She hesitated for a beat longer, and then stood to make her way to the hospital wing.

* * *

 

Head bowed, fingers gripping the desk, a tear sliding the length of his hooked nose.

“I don’t think I can do this any longer.”

“You must. There is no other option.” Dumbledore’s portrait was annoyingly gentle. Severus would’ve preferred screaming. “You must communicate what is necessary to the boy. You must control yourself. You cannot get careless now, Severus—too much is at stake. You must have known what you were committing yourself to. You said you’d do _anything_.”

“To protect her! She’s gone. And leading her son quietly to the slaughter won’t do a thing to bring her back.” He shook his head. “I was…stupid today.”

“You were human.” Dumbledore said patiently. “I imagine there are certain aspects of Ginny Weasley that are particularly cutting to you.”

“She doesn’t look a thing like her. She’s only got the hair—and it’s not even identical.” He dismissed. He reached up and angrily wiped at his eyes.

“No. But we can’t always help who we see our loved ones in. I, for example, have always found it difficult to look into young Luna Lovegood’s eyes. It is not so much her appearance—though it does bear a certain likeliness to the one I lost. It is her spirit. We cannot control it.”

Severus, at that current moment, had no interest in who Albus Dumbledore had loved and lost.

“It was a mistake. If the Dark Lord finds out that Potter cared for the girl—”

“He won’t. The Carrows are not brave enough to summon him on their own without concrete information, and from what you’ve told it, Ms Weasley is not giving anything up. Frightened, young Draco Malfoy, I think I’m correct in assuming, would have no interest in sharing this information. No other students have the Mark. If she’s even half as clever as Molly Prewett was at her age, she’ll have understood what you meant about returning to Hogwarts. She won’t come back after Easter holidays. And the Order wouldn’t risk the Weasleys—they have done too much for them, for too long. She’ll be given every protection. So, Severus,” he let out an annoyingly contented sigh. “I believe, on the whole, things have gone rather well today. You saved a young woman from dying needlessly.”

Severus felt a sudden, intense flash of hatred.

“Which would have been unnecessary, if Potter cared about anybody but himself. He’s like his father, like James Potter, causing those they love to be in danger. What was he thinking? Potter. Did he think that nobody would find out? That just because he wasn’t here, nobody would remember them traipsing around the school grounds? All the staff knew. It was one of the biggest pieces of stupid gossip within my classroom for weeks. He just…leaves her for dead. Leaves _me_ the task of, once again, protecting—”

He stopped. A quick glance back at Dumbledore’s portrait told him he was displeased.

“Leaves you the task of protecting the young women they care about?” Dumbledore completed.

Severus said nothing.

“I don’t need to remind you that you are the one who provided the information that got Lily Evans murdered. I don’t need to remind you that James Potter, wandless, attempted to hold off Voldemort, even if only for a moment, for the sake of Lily Potter. At the expense of his own life. I don’t need to remind you, Severus, that Harry Potter has _never_ had the luxury of taking the lives of those he loves for granted. What was he meant to do? Take her along with him—with her trace still intact? Hide her somewhere, putting the entire Weasley family in danger? You, once again, have resorted to taking out your own self-hatred on the Potters. Hatred is what got us here to begin with. Hatred, resentment, rage. We must not let them control us. We must act as you did today: carefully, sensibly, compassionately. We must be as kind as we can be.”

“Says the man who has sent Harry Potter, and countless others alongside him, to their deaths. What does it matter if I saved her life today? She, like Lily’s son, like all the other members of Dumbledore’s Army, will be dead by the end of the year.”

He didn’t know how much portraits could feel. But he thought he may’ve wounded Albus.

“Do not presume to know the future. Do not attempt to calculate the strength of threatened children. And never, _ever_ assume that a good deed was fruitless, no matter how small. You never know, Severus. By saving her life today, you could’ve inadvertently saved the lives of many more.”

* * *

 

Ginny Potter was floating above the Burrow, a sleeping child pressed snugly over her heart.

It had been nineteen months and three days since James joined their family and forever changed their lives. And the little bugger was _still_ refusing to fall asleep without a pre-bedtime broom ride.

“Well?” Ginny greeted, as Harry flew up alongside her. He’d been inside, held at the mercy of a pregnant Hermione and mildly-distraught Ron. Ginny had assumed he’d be held up for a while, but it seemed the crisis had been solved quicker than she’d anticipated.

“Ron was only mildly hexed. He’s fine.” Harry answered.

“Oh, I don’t care about that. What’d they decide about the baby?”

Harry laughed briefly, his eyes dancing. He pulled his broom alongside hers and reached over, settling his hand on her thigh. His lips twitched upwards again at the sight of James. The baby carrier George had designed for her before James was born had worked _perfectly_ for the first seventeen months of James’ life. It strapped to her chest, holding him safely in place while she flew, and was equipped with a self-sizing charm (so it grew alongside James), cushioning charms in case of a crash, and even an atmospheric charm, which kept James at a comfortable temperature despite the cool night air. What it _didn’t_ have was a way to accommodate James’ mother’s growing baby bump. At six months, it was already uncomfortably tight, and poor James was sleeping against her at an odd incline, thanks to the swell of her stomach sending his lower half out farther than his upper. But if he minded, he didn’t show; he was just as eager for their nighttime flight now as he’d always been. Like clockwork, around seven thirty in the evening, he began climbing all over Ginny, babbling his three favorite words: _mama, dada, ‘boom’_ (his best effort at ‘broom’ thus far).

“Well,” Harry began. “They decided that Ron could choose if it’s a girl, and Hermione could choose for a boy, because she’s already got a boy name she’s partial to.”

“So…?”

“So if it’s a girl, Ron says they’ll call her ‘Rose’. If it’s a boy, Hermione says they’ll call him ‘Hugo’.”

Ginny smiled. “Aw,” she said, a surprising wave of affection washing over her heart. She told herself it was the hormones. “Rose is actually rather nice. I never knew my brother had it in him.”

“Neither did I. Honestly, I think it was the first thing that came to his mind; your mum’s rose teapot was right behind me, in his line of vision. I think he just wanted to win.” Harry admitted.

“…that sounds more like Ron. Though, you know, I’m just glad Hermione didn’t get her way with _Manon_.”

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, she knew how partial I was to that name, so she decided that we could have it for ours.”

His palm settled on the side of her swollen belly.

“We’re having another boy,” Ginny reminded him dryly, not at all amused by the name _Manon_.

“Right. Manon for a girl _or_ a boy.”

It was his cheeky smirk that humored her. She laughed softly, trying not to jolt James too much.

“Hermione did have me thinking, though. We should probably start having the name argument, too. We knew James’ name from conception practically, and this one will be here in a few months’ time.”

“Hmm,” Ginny mused. She leaned back a bit, her right hand placed behind her gripping the broomstick, her left reaching up to gently stroke through James’ downy black hair (that was already every bit as free-spirited as Harry’s). She stared at the ever-shrinking sun as it edged closer and closer to the horizon. “George has already used Fred. Percy’s been talking about using Arthur, if he and Audrey have another and it happens to be a boy, though Audrey’s not too keen on the idea of a third.”

“What about William?”

Ginny laughed. “What? No.”

“Why? You adore Bill. We could call him _Will,_ if you’re worried about it being confusing.”

“No. No. I don’t know; I don’t like it.” She wasn’t sure if she wanted to put words to the way her stomach had turned.

“Don’t like what?” Harry asked patiently.

For a moment, she focused entirely on the soft rhythm of James’ heart, pattering away against her chest, the gentle rhythm of his breathing in time with hers, and the vivid pinks of the setting sun. She kept her mind on those real, steady things as she replied, so her mind wouldn’t have the chance to wander to thoughts too painful to humor.

“It feels like a curse. To name one of them after somebody who is still alive.” She settled her hand on James’ back and hugged him closer to her. “Like we’re…I dunno. Tempting fate? I’ve just always felt like…if you’re going to give your children names of those you love…it should be people who’ve already passed. And because of that, I feel like if we named him _William_ , that it might—” she broke off. The idea of Bill dying was so sickening that her eyes seared. She cleared her throat and stared hard at the sunset, aware of how silly and vulnerable her fear was.

Harry was tentative.

“But you’re Ginevra _Molly_. I’m Harry _James_ —well, I suppose I’m not the best example. But your mum is fine.”

Ginny looked at him. “Middle names are different. Middle names are okay. I’d be fine with having his middle name _William_.”

“Okay. No, don’t look like that, Gin—it makes sense, I get it.” He leaned over carefully and kissed her cheekbone. “So a new name or somebody who’s died.”

“Right. Remus?”

“Teddy’s to use, one day. What about Fabian? Or Gideon?”

“I dunno—I never knew them, so it seems odd to use them. Not genuine. What about…” she stopped.

Harry looked sheepish. “I think we may’ve just had the same thought.”

Ginny held his gaze. She thought about his body, hunched over the headmaster’s, the way he’d sobbed and gasped. She thought about the lost way he’d followed after her, the way he’d fought back tears at the funeral. That man had meant so much to him. Despite everything, he’d been one of the closest things to a father that Harry had ever had.

“Albus.” She tried the name out on her tongue. She leaned down and pressed an absentminded kiss to the top of James’ head. She gently ran her nose along his scalp as she pondered over the name, her eyes shut. “Albus. Al. Albus Potter. Al Potter.”

And then, both of them at once:

“Yes.”

Ginny opened her eyes and lifted her head, turning to look at Harry once more. He grinned. She beamed back. Her heart swelled and her stomach fluttered. Her unborn baby even twisted for good measure. She carefully reached over and grabbed Harry’s hand, bringing it over to the side of her stomach. She leaned back as Harry grinned, feeling out the gentle movements of their son (their Albus).

“Albus William, then.” Harry’s voice held indescribable pride.

Ginny frowned. “He might take slight offense to being demoted to middle name for a man we aren’t even related to.”

Harry was exasperated. “But, Gin, you said—”

“ _I_ know that. But not everybody understands me like you do. Not everybody accepts everything about me, either. No matter what we say, people would probably think it odd.”

“So…?”

“Albus Harry?”

“Not a chance.” Harry said immediately.

“Oh, fine. It was worth a try.” She grumbled.

“Was it? Was it _really_?” He squinted at her, skeptical.

“Careful, now. Wouldn’t want you to _accidentally_ fall from your broom.”

He merely grinned at her, amused and slightly lovesick. It was one of his best grins. She was disappointed when it gradually fell, his green eyes widening slightly. He stared out at the horizon, pondering deeply. When he looked back at her, he appeared slightly apprehensive.

“Hey, Gin?”

“Hmm?”

He scratched at the back of his neck, and then he reached up, rubbing over his scar. Ginny reached over and caught his hand, stopping his nervous habit.

“What?” She pressed gently. She studied his eyes carefully.

“What do you think of the name Severus?” He asked. His voice was hardly above a whisper. It hadn’t been what Ginny was expecting.

She leaned back slightly, her eyes widening.

“ _Oh_.” She said.

His cheeks flushed slightly. “He was awful to you. I know. And to me. But he is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason Voldemort’s dead.”

She was wary. “ _You’re_ the reason Voldemort is dead.”

“Part of it. But he is, too.” A beat. “I completely understand if you hate the idea.”

For one of the first times since James was born, Ginny allowed herself to think of her sixth year. She stared out at the horizon, silently musing over memories she’d only shared with Harry once in all their time together—and they had never been shared in full, simply because she hadn’t wanted to delve too deeply into them yet. It had all made more sense to her in retrospect, once she’d been told the truth about Severus Snape. At the time, she’d known he was helping her, though she hadn’t understood why. Now, she realized he’d been trying to help in his own way all along.

“He was horrid to us. To most of his students. To _Neville_. Neville’s boggart was Snape until after the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“I know. Forget I suggested it.”

“He particularly enjoyed bullying you,” she continued.

“Merlin, Gin, yes. Sorry.”

“But I’m pretty sure that he saved my life in my sixth year. And, you know, I rather like me. And I’m glad I’m alive. And he saved _your_ life in a few roundabout ways, and I _sort of_ like you, and I’m glad you’re alive. So…yes. Sure. Albus Severus.”

She’d rendered her husband speechless. She pretended not to notice, occupying herself with stroking James’ hair once more. Underneath the dimming light, it was harder than ever to see the scars that ran up her right inner forearm. In the brightest of lights, she could make out a few discernable words, _Harry_ being one of them. But they’d made her write so many different things over each other that, thankfully, none of the vile sentences had managed to scar over with much transparency (unlike the back of Harry’s hand).

“You never told me that. About your sixth year.” He paused. “And you _sort of_ like me? You’re pregnant with our second child.”

She laughed loudly enough to give James a start. She stifled her laughter quickly and waited until he’d shifted, yawned, and settled back down to respond. Harry was grinning that grin again, the one that said _I adore you and I think you’re hilarious_. He was incredibly kind—she was almost certain she wasn’t nearly as funny as he thought she was.

“It was a few days before Easter holidays. Neville and I, we got caught putting banners up again. I don’t remember what that one said exactly…some variation of _stand with Potter, join Dumbledore’s Army…_ something like that. The Carrows brought me down to the dungeons. That’s where the kept those in detention. If you were lucky, you were used for students to practice the Cruciatus on. If you were unlucky, they’d decide to interrogate you down there. I was, as I’m sure you’re gathering, unlucky.”

He was frowning deeply now.

“Well. Somebody told the Carrows that we’d been together the year before. They thought they might get information from me.” Her voice was light and unaffected, but she couldn’t stop her hands from quaking, so she quickly tucked them between the carrier and her burgeoning belly. “After a while, the Cruciatus becomes nothing. Or maybe…I wasn’t really there anymore. I couldn’t really feel it. Or perhaps that’s what I’ve convinced myself as time has passed. Either way, it didn’t work, and after an entire day of it, they got really angry. So. You know, they got creative.”

He looked ill. She took a deep breath and pressed on.

“Nothing too bad. Could’ve been worse. They’d soak my robes, cast a freezing charm, and then really quickly cast a heating one. Over and over, until I vomited. Doesn’t sound like it’d cause you to vomit, I know, I was skeptical at first. But it really…it doesn’t feel too good, after a while. And then they spent four hours making me fall down, over and over, until the skin of my knees was—”

She stopped abruptly after a glance at Harry’s face. She swallowed hard, remembering all at once why she’d abridged the events of her sixth year. He looked tormented.

“So all that and a bit more went on. And then Snape came downstairs, right around the time that Alecto casted some curse I’ve never seen before. It made my blood pour out of me. Up my throat, from my ears, my eyes, my nose. I couldn’t see, I was choking on it, it was _horrible_ …” she trailed off, trying to recall the precise order of events. “Snape stopped her. He was quite angry. He pulled Alecto off of me; he put up what must’ve been a shield charm. He stopped the bleeding. He sent Alecto away, he sent for Madame Pomfrey. And then…”

James gave a quiet, contented sigh in his sleep, snuggling closer to Ginny. She shook her head, tearing herself from the memories.

“He healed me himself, all except for my arm. He cleaned the blood off of me. And he told me…not in so many words, of course, but he basically said not to come back after the Easter holidays. And Harry—he didn’t tell the Carrows about us. He lied to Alecto’s face. He swore we were never involved, because Alecto was threatening to summon Voldemort there to interrogate me himself, but Snape convinced her that we were never together. If he hadn’t…I don’t think I’d be here right now. James wouldn’t be here right now.” She paused. “ _Albus_ wouldn’t either.”

“And if you weren’t, I wouldn’t be either.”

She could’ve argued with him. But she understood what he meant. She pressed on.

“He made a lot of mistakes. He hurt a lot of people. But what he did was incredibly brave, and frightening, and difficult. What he did _mattered_ —all of it. All the little things he did for you. The big things he did for me.” Ginny nodded. “So, yes. If you’d like to give our son his name—I’m really all right with that. Because he wouldn’t even exist without him.”

Harry swayed dangerously on his broom as he leaned over to capture Ginny’s lips. He was smiling softly when he leaned back.

“I suppose it’s a moot point regardless. Ron’ll kill us both once he hears what we’re naming him.”

“ _Still_ better than Manon.”

* * *

 

Harry and Ginny walked back into the Burrow’s kitchen once the sun disappeared entirely. They were accosted by the sound of yet another Granger-Weasley argument, this time over middle names, and James was rudely jarred awake by a wayward baby shoe, sent hurdling across the room by a flick of Ron’s wand.

“Oi!” Ginny cried, outraged. Harry quickly pulled James into his arms as he began wailing. Ginny pointed her wand at her brother. “Don’t throw shoes at my son! Are you itching to be hexed?”

She bewitched the massive baby name book on the nearby table to follow after Ron, repetitively smacking him around the ears, until he apologized. Ginny was still glowering as the book flopped innocuously to the floor.

“Sorry, really, Ginny. I suppose things just got out of hand. Naming babies is difficult.” Hermione sighed.

“What were you two doing, anyway? You never fly around with Little Potter for that long.” Ron inquired.

“Oh,” Harry said, glancing towards Ginny.

“We were naming Little Potter II.” She supplied. She plopped down on the sofa beside Hermione. She stretched out, resting her head in what was left of Hermione’s lap, her hand rising to rest on her sister-in-law’s massive stomach. “Hello, little Rose or Hugo. If only your mummy would find out which you are, so I wouldn’t call you the incorrect name.”

“No!” Hermione snapped, before Ron had even formed the words. It had been their first—but very far from their last—argument that pregnancy. Hermione didn’t want to know the sex of the baby, but Ron did.

“Just like that?” Hermione pressed, once she was certain Ron wasn’t going to harass her about the baby’s sex again. “In an hour? You’ve just…named him?”

“Yep.” Ginny said.

“Just like that.” Harry affirmed.

Hermione nodded. “Well, you’ve got loads of names to choose from and loads of people to honor. Of course it’s easier for you two.”

“What—because so many people I know are dead?” Harry deadpanned.

Ginny broke out into giggles at the horrified look on Hermione’s face.

“No! No, Harry! I just meant…well.” She looked ashamed.

“Anyway,” Ron interrupted quickly. “What’d you two decide on?”

Harry leaned over Ginny and caught her eye. They shared a secretive smile and then looked back at Ron and Hermione.

“…you’ll see.” They chorused.

“Oh, bloody hell; it’s never good news when you two have got _that smile_ on your faces.” Ron groaned. “You’d better not name that baby Roonil Wazlib Potter.”

Immediately, they all burst into laughter. Ginny patted lovingly over Hermione’s stomach once the laughter pandered off.

“Rose Or Hugo Granger-Weasley, I can’t _wait_ until you meet your new best friend, Roonil Wazlib Potter.”

“I literally hate you sometimes, _Ginevra._ ” Ron glowered.

She feigned offense.

“Well,” she scoffed, “in that case, forget me naming my son after you.”

Ron’s face fell. “Wait, what? Harry?”

Harry shrugged. “Sorry, mate. Gin’s the one carrying it. Roonil’s off the list.”

“But…but…”

“Albus Severus should do it, I think.” Ginny commented.

Harry’s face lit up. “Perfect!”

Ron looked between them as they laughed, slowly realizing they’d had that planned all along.

“….have I ever told you two that you’re _exceptionally_ more annoying together than you are apart?”

“Only every Sunday dinner.”

 


End file.
